Sweet Nothings
by Noise And Hammers
Summary: Sherlock is dreaming this Sunday. Dreaming about John. And John is curious. Johnlock fluff but no lemons. Sorry. Previously "Sunday Is For Dreaming"


NOTE: Feeling the need to ship. So I'm shippin. Boom. Title sucks because I couldn't think of a good one :P

SUNDAY IS FOR DREAMING

Sherlock was sleeping, finally. John always found ways to be awake while Sherlock was asleep. Probably because Sherlock wouldn't sleep until his body couldn't function anymore and he passed out at random during the day. Thankfully, it was a boring, rainy Sunday, and Sherlock's body had decided to finally crash after a long week of cases. He now rested leadenly on the couch, his arm hanging limply off the edge.

John liked to watch Sherlock when he was doing un-Sherlock things. Like when he was eating. Or making tea. Or watching telly. Or brushing his teeth. Or sleeping. It was best when he was sleeping.

"Mmmyes…" Sherlock mumbled. He turned over and curled into a rather attractive ball on the cushions, his green satin dressing gown snug around his bare shoulders. John sighed and wiped his forehead as he debated peeling off his already sweat dampened Army PT shirt.

It was the summer, and 221B was without air conditioning for the time being (John had angrily found the A/C unit being used for scrap parts while Sherlock had tried to engineer a new toaster—he'd blown up their previous one), so the two men had resulted in less clothes and more open windows.

The rain was nice today. It cooled London and steam rose off the pavement. John usually had the windows open when it rained, no matter the season, but today it came as quite a welcome habit, even to Sherlock—Sherlock, who was now sprawled out again, bare chest glazed with sweat and light flannel pants loosely set on his long, outstretched legs. John sighed again, and turned back to the telly. It was muted, silently playing another rerun of Dr. Who.

John had long ago come to terms with the fact that he was attracted to Sherlock, even if he still so vehemently denied that he was gay. He loved the man, truly, and it wasn't harmful to be attracted to someone you loved. Was it?

Mycroft had been the first to know, even before John had accepted it himself. The elder Holmes had kept a close eye on John Watson, and not just for his little brother's sake. John chuckled at the past conversation.

"_You are aware that my brother needs you?"_

"_Yes."_

"_And you are aware that he more than likely will attach himself to you."_

"_Romantically? Because I'm not—"_

"_Oh Doctor Watson, whether you know it or not, things will turn out that you and my brother will more than likely have quite the relationship."_

"_Mycroft I don't think—"_

"_I know you don't, John. But have no fear; that's what my brother and I do best."_

And that was that. And of course, Mycroft turned out to be close to spot on. Sherlock wasn't the romantic, but he was definitely attached to John, if not dependent on him, and John couldn't help but want to be there. To be near to him. To want him.

"Just…like thatmmf…" Sherlock sighed. He had an odd smirk-smile on his face, and John turned off the television. He pulled the chair from the desk over to the couch and sat down, curiously staring at Sherlock.

Sherlock Holmes hardly ever dreamt, much less talked in his sleep, but occasionally John would catch glimpses, and he found it very interesting. Consequently, John had very often noticed that whenever Sherlock fell asleep and went into a very deep dream sequence, one that allowed for such afternoons as these, Sherlock seemed to dream about John quite a lot. He wondered if today would prove to show the same results.

This afternoon, Sherlock seemed to be in a very intense situation. His chest rose and fell quicker than usual, he was moving around more so than normal, and he kept grinning or knitting his eyebrows. John brushed a stray tangle of curls out of the detective's face.

"John…" Sherlock nearly moaned. John cocked his head.

"Sherlock? You awake?" he asked innocently. The detective didn't stir. So he _was_ dreaming about John again. Interesting.

John liked it when Sherlock slept because, for once, John was the observing one. John was the one making conclusions and deductions and having the upper hand. And now John knew that Sherlock was dreaming about him again. And this made John increasingly curious.

"John…ymmm…" Sherlock turned his head towards John and took a sharp breath inward. "Just there…"

John narrowed his eyes and licked his lips. He had an idea—albeit a slightly embarrassing one—as to what was going on in the massive brain of the brunette beauty, but he dared not look towards his nether regions to find out. Instead he preoccupied himself with watching the detective's chest rise and fall, rise and fall, bare and pale, flawless and fine.

John let his fingers just barely dance across the surface of Sherlock's skin, tracing a delicate path between his pectorals and down just past his naval, then back up. Sherlock arched his back just slightly and out of the corner his mouth he gave a small sigh. John smiled.

He leant over and drew his face close to Sherlock's, so that he could feel his short breath lightly on his skin. He put his hand on the sleeping man's face and gently stroked his prominent cheekbone fondly. He loved his cheekbones. He loved his face. His eyes, stony but brilliant, always calculating, always crystallized, his lips, a paling pink, soft like flower petals…

"John?" Sherlock asked tiredly, eyes fluttering open. John sat back a bit, retracting his hand.

"Sleep well?" he asked, trying to gain control over the redness in his cheeks. He finally allowed his gaze to quickly shift towards Sherlock's midsection and below.

Just as he expected. He looked back at Sherlock's face, flushed.

Sherlock propped himself up on his elbows and looked at John curiously. John licked his lips and pursed his lips.

"John," Sherlock said. He smiled coyly when the doctor looked at him. "Everything alright?"

Sometimes John really hated how Sherlock knew nearly everything. He could look at John and just..._know_.

"Why..." He cleared his throat. "Why wouldn't it be?" He smiled meekly at Sherlock, who was still bare chested, still glistening in the dim strands of daylight seeping through the rain flecked window, still ebon and beautiful...

...and still maintaing a rather irksome bulge in between his legs.

"Something's off, you're tense," he said. The tone was all too familiar to John. Sherlock was observing. Concluding. Deducing.

"You're sweating, but not from the heat. Your pupils are slightly dilated. Your pulse is elevated judging by the redness at the tips of your ears and flushing in your cheeks. Your mouth is dry-clear sign of anxiety-because you're licking your lips and swallowing often. You're avoiding eye contact and y-"

_Oh sod this._

And John leant over and crushed his mouth against Sherlock's, passionately devouring the man's satin lips.

Sherlock was thoroughly taken aback, and John could tell, but he didn't care. He hungrily kissed the shaken detective, grasping his slightly matted curls and plunging his tongue deep into Sherlock's mouth.

There was little resistance as John entangled his fingers in Sherlock's hair and let one hand snake around his slim waistline. The two stayed locked together by the mouth, desire fueling their heated oral battle. John maneuvered his way to position himself on top of Sherlock, who began to explore the new concept with a more aggressive attempt to kiss John's neck.

But John broke away suddenly and looked down into Sherlock's bewildered eyes.

"You're always right," he said with a smile. Sherlock blinked. "But this time I know something you don't."

"And what is that?" Sherlock managed to ask, still determined to rise to the challenge. His eyes were fixed on John's. John let his hand graze Sherlock's tender skin, tracing a gentle path across his pant line as he hovered over him.

"You want me," John said teasingly. "And you know what, Sherlock?"

Sherlock flinched lightly as John hooked his thumb in Sherlock's pants and gave a short tug.

"What?" Sherlock whispered in excitement and shock. He brought his arm up and pulled it around John's neck, bringing John closer to his face. John smiled.

"I want you too."

There was a beat of silence before Sherlock gave a short, knowing chuckle.

"What?" John said, his smile beginning to fade.

"I've always known that, John," he said. He delivered a sweet kiss to the doctor's forehead and said, his lips delicately poised against John's skin.

"I was beginning to wonder how many times I had to pretend to dream about you before you gave in."

Then, before John could protest further, Sherlock kissed him, and through a smile that was pressed firmly against Sherlock's lips, John said.

"Show off."

_FIN_


End file.
